60-Second Realisation

Why John Glenn’s Space Flight Allowed Me to Ditch My Lace-Trimmed Bobby Socks

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 08:00:00 +0000

When John Glenn became the first American to orbit the earth 50 years ago today, I was a one-year-old, curly-headed girl who wore crisp dresses, clean bobby socks, and polished shoes with pearly buttons that my mother favored. Though it was the 1960s, it was the very early ‘60s, and attitudes for fashion and proper decorum for young ladies held over from the 1950s shaped how girls were treated. John Glenn’s space flight on February 20, 1962 helped change all that.

Reams have been written about the women’s movement, counterculture in the 1960s, civil rights, protest and free speech, and all the other momentous happenings that helped change American life in that tumultuous era. It was a busy and scary time to be young in Los Angeles, where change was happening everywhere. As a very young girl in the early part of the 1960s, I was too young to really absorb what all those changes meant. But being young when America’s space program was young meant we grew up together. For humanity, it meant we were no longer physically bound to the limits of our extraordinary planet. For me, a girl, an eldest child of very traditional parents, it meant I was no longer psychologically bound to millennial-old roles that culture and society decided for females. John Glenn went into space. I, and a generation of young boys and girls followed him there with our attention and aspirations.

Within the decade, America had men walking on the moon. Out of the scientific discoveries that enabled that to happen, space-age technology—such as transistors—made its way into everyday American life. I had an asymmetrical, pentagonal shaped transistor radio—the 1960s version of the iPod—and I carried the technology with me that allowed me to tap into the news and music of the day, and the commentary of the deejays, and I went walking in my bell-bottom jeans to see what I could discover.

"Trying to find the latitude and longitude of the nearest pie."

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 08:00:00 +0000

A road trip always begins with at least two elements: a traveler and a conveyance. The traveler may be going solo, the conveyance may be a sedan, and the destination may not necessarily be predetermined. But one thing that is predetermined is the desire, or need, to go somewhere. Another element of a road trip is the search for comforts along the way. This is especially true, and more insistent, the longer the trip is. Certain biological needs must be attended to, and hunger is a powerful force that drives discoveries of country fresh fruit, shoreline crab cocktails, a city’s simmering soups.

Slow travel—relatively slow travel—by car allows you to see the topographical changes that an air travel hopscotch of latitude parallels and lines of meridian doesn’t permit. Slow travel also heightens any craving for quotidian fare that the mind decides is more critical the more miles are traversed. I have discovered this any time I’ve hit the road in the very early morning, hoping to find a roadside establishment where I can secure something as complicated as a cafe latte instead of settling for a cup of joe. Sometimes a barrier appears, such as an ocean, necessitating backtracking. Desire for the juice of a burned bean has contributed to my driving endurance.

Distance—of time and space—from the usual and accessible foods we consume expands like rising yeast dough to fill nearly every corner of our waking thoughts until the craving is finally satisfied through some half-baked idea to drive another 100 miles to a town big enough to have a population that could support a market, a restaurant, a cafe.

Satisfying a food craving is also apparently powerful enough to open a mind previously closed to science. When John Wesley Powell made his first run down the Colorado River in 1869 with some mountain men as part of his geographic expedition team, the mountain men bitterly complained of the delays Powell and his scientists took in making measurements and recording data, and locating lost trails on clear, star-filled nights by dead reckoning. But after sodden and slogging weeks, Powell found one of the mountain men had a change of attitude. In his report on the trip, Powell writes, “While we are eating supper, we very naturally speak of better fare, as musty bread and spoiled bacon are not pleasant. Soon I see Hawkins down by the boat, taking up the sextant, rather a strange proceeding for him, and I question him concerning it. He replies that he is trying to find the latitude and longitude of the nearest pie.”

The desire for crust and confection as a route to exploring the fruits of science.

Amundsen and Scott in their push to the South Pole—A One Hundred Year Anniversary

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Before it causes numbness, stupor, and then death, extreme cold lances sensitive flesh with a thousand hazardous pricks. People weren’t shaped for exposure to the environment the South Pole offers. It takes a certain character to attempt visiting such a place, let alone striving to be the first to claim it in an era of limited technological gear and support. Yet one hundred years ago today, on December 14, 2011, a Norwegian team beat a British team in a grinding slog of a race through Antarctica to win the explorer’s glory at the geographical point where all longitudinal lines meet. But as every adventurer knows, the destination is only half the journey. The trip isn’t finished until arrival at home, and all along the way, out and back, a number of personal choices aid or hinder the pursuit.

Roald Amundsen was the leader of the Norwegians, and by accounts, he was a pragmatic leader who knew that dogs were essential as units of work—to drag heavy sledges over the frozen continent—and later as feed—butchered and served for hungry men and the stronger dogs. Robert Falcon Scott, the leader of the British team, felt that using dogs was unsporting. His men became beasts of burden, dragging their heavy sledges after their ponies and motorized conveyances quit. When they finally trudged to the point at the bottom of the earth, they found the flag of their rival team, a letter addressed to the Norwegian king written five weeks earlier, and a note for Scott. Scott was to carry the letter back to Europe if Amundsen did not return home. It was Scott who stayed, and died, with his men—slowly, in the cold, wearing down by degrees over their last couple of months.

Life is our choices, those that lead to success as well as the miscalculations that direct us away from our goals, sometimes to tragic ends. Luck plays a part, but to a very large degree, our personal orientation shapes how we operate. Though Scott perished in Antarctica, his story has held popular attention and sympathy. Perhaps it is the recognition of disappointment, those familiar “what ifs.” In his diary, Scott wrote, “Great God! This is an awful place and terrible enough for us to have laboured to it without the reward of priority.”

Photo of Robert Falcon Scott

Mars crew discovers green-eyed monster aboard

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Six young guys who were stuck inside a small isolation module for 520 days, to simulate a mission to Mars, found a green-eyed monster inside. Scientists had designed the Moscow-based experiment to test what stress and isolation will do to people in close quarters, and what resulted wasn’t a surprise to anyone who’s ever been on a long road trip in a small, packed car: People get on each other’s nerves.

Another result—which is not a revelation to any dog, chimp, elephant, or brother, sister, girlfriend, boyfriend, wife, husband—was that jealousies developed. Scientific Program Director Alexander Suvorov shared with a Russian news website that some crew members had to do much more work while other crew members had a more passive role. Children at a young age recognize what isn’t fair, and those basic attitudes about justice might become obscured as people mature and learn ambiguity, but most still know it when they see it.

Uneven work distribution wasn’t the only source of bitter feelings. Those who received more news from family and friends than others were also targets for the corrosive emotion.

The six men of the Mars500 crew came out of isolation a few days ago, and were, according to the Russian program director, all physically healthy. The experiment was staged to prepare for an actual trip to Mars, which Russia hopes to do 25 years from now.

While astounding advances have been made in the medical field—in treating illness, keeping the body healthy, and increasing longevity—we’re still the same emotional people that led Shakespeare to characterize Othello’s obsession as a green-eyed monster. And it was an old metaphor when the Bard used it, since ancient Greek poets had warned, many hundreds of years earlier, of that green-hued sickness. Neither education, nor training in rational thinking are barriers to jealousy. Not so long ago, an astronaut was reported to have diapered up to drive non-stop across the U.S. to accost her romantic rival. Will the Russians find a cure for this emotion in the next 25 years?

A Day for the Dead

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 08:00:00 +0000

You might have felt a little palpitation had you glimpsed her out of the corner of your eye, as I first did. The skeletal mask painted on her face had cracked, and she looked like a Dia de los Muertos sculpture come to life.

It is true that Halloween is weeks away, and any mischief by ghouls and specters, ghosts and spirits, apparitions and phantoms are not on the calendar until the end of the month, unless by clairvoyant appointment or some predestined misfortune.

Still, you had to admire the beauty of her costume, and shiver at death personified, walking around in broad daylight looking to increase population counts in that inclusive zone beyond the River Styx. Adrenaline (the hormone that juices us up for flight or fight) is accompanied by pleasure-producing endorphins (the morphine-like substance we produce in our bodies), so who knows what part we’re so exhilarated about. Beauty and fear are twined.

Ghost stories abound from culture to culture and throughout human history, and some stories are so well crafted, and strike such a universal note in capturing the dread and curiosity about what comes after that they become archetypes. The Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice is one that has always resonated with me. There’s poor Orpheus—a musical genius who has no rival but the gods alone. When he plays and sings, there is no limit to his power, and he is irresistible to everyone. A pop idol of the ancient world. He’s grief stricken that his new bride Eurydice has died from a sting by a viper, and been taken to the underworld. Orpheus decides to charm the debtor who is always paid by playing him a song so he can rescue Eurydice from Hades. So great is his art, no one can refuse him, even Death. But Death gives him a condition: Orpheus can take Eurydice above, to life and the earth, but he must not look back as she follows him.

Of course you know from the moment you hear this qualifier that Orpheus doesn’t have a chance (who knows human nature better than Death?) because Orpheus is human, he’s curious, and sometimes it’s hard to trust in things. He’s at the top, on the crust of earth, and he just wants to make sure she’s really there. So he looks. A fatal error, because Eurydice is pulled back down to the underworld and Orpheus is barred from entering that place again while he is alive. After that, his spends the remainder of his life in wild solitude, playing his music for the rocks, rivers, and trees.

Halloween, All Hallow’s Eve, Day of the Dead, Dia de los Muertos: We celebrate those we knew with artistry, song, costumes, food, and stories, because after they’ve gone, the only way we can join them here is by remembering them.

Photo: Lisa-Natalie Anjozian

The Curious Portal: A Passion to Peek Beyond

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 08:00:00 +0000

You’ve probably seen them more than once. They could be architectural, they could be natural, they could be a combination of both, but whoever crafted them, and whatever purpose they serve, these portals tantalize the inquisitive with revelations they seem to promise if only you will care to step through to have a look.

There are the doors cut into slopes that lead nowhere, and the doors suspended from second stories where exterior stairs must surely once have stood. There are the trails that push into forested tunnels tighter than a subway tube, where the portal is no solid barrier, but a space so dark it might as well be as tough to pass through as a padlocked, metal-riveted barricade. Some portals are multicellular organisms, directing you through parts within parts in an inscrutable course.

Next month, wandering through curious portals will be part of the harvest fun, as mazes will pop up in corn fields and the adventurous will pay admission for the opportunity to feel lost, to discover, and with resolve, to finally exit victorious. Those who want an even greater challenge will select nightfall to begin the journey. Some of these mazes are so large, and have so many corridors, it’s possible to get lost longer than is comfortable. Because it is a controlled setting, getting lost is part of the thrill.

I wonder if the thrill of seeking something hidden is so deeply ingrained in us that we can’t help but be entertained, right from the beginning as giggling babies playing peek-a-boo with a patient person. There are those we know and those people we hear of who are more ostentatiously daring in their thrill-seeking, getting-lost pursuits, but I think the adventure is present every time our sleep-satisfied lids open the portal that leads us everywhere.

Photos: Lisa-Natalie Anjozian

A Break at the Beach

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Hiking along the beach is tricky, depending on what shore you’re at. One of my favorite beaches has a number of coves created by headlands that jut out into the blue and turbulent Pacific. If you don’t check the tide table before you go, you could find yourself stuck at high tide, with only segments of beach to walk on and rock walls that must you must clamber over if you want to make forward progress. I generally check the tide tables, but one day before heading to the hospital to visit my mom, I just needed a trip to the ocean before plunging once again into her monitored room. What I found was a beach nearly drowned with salty water, and I had to time my dashes from one cove to the next between the surf rolling out and the waves crashing in. There is a pattern to wave intervals, and it becomes apparent that every third or fourth wave is much bigger than those that came before, and even with the best intentions and planning, you can still get crushed by a force that’s under no one’s control. More than once the waves broke higher than I expected, drenching my jeans and shoes. Each time it happened, the waves surprised me, and the shock of being caught was a pleasurable inconvenience. During the time I focused on the wave interval, and tried to avoid the big breakers, I forgot about my next destination and what that meant.

On another trip to the coast, I had my camera with me and I caught some friends scrambling on the sand where generations of broken shells had been tossed by the churning ocean. The surf’s roar couldn’t squelch the sound of the friends’ laughter. One woman was wearing canvas sneakers; the other woman wore knee-high rubber boots. The salt water was too deep for the woman with the canvas sneakers, so her friend carried her on her back until they reached dry land. At one point, I thought both women would fall, but wobbling and teetering, the one doing the carrying made it safely against all expectations. An everyday hero, she received her thanks and both headed up the trail.

Does John Wayne Still Ride in an Alternative Universe?

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 08:00:00 +0000

One of my favorite scenes in a movie is near the end of “Contact”, in which Jodie Foster’s character travels through a wormhole in the cosmos to wind up on a beach where she sees her deceased father. I appreciate that scene because I, like most people, have a list of people and animals I want to visit, and things I’d like to do again.

One of the things I’d like to do is go for a lazy, warm afternoon ride on Duke, a big, bay Quarter Horse who is the son of John Wayne’s mare. Duke is a kind, steady, reliable sort of horse, and I felt comfortable riding him alone, for long hours, in the chaparral-and-prickly-pear-studded wilderness where I often trailered him. He belonged to my friend DeeDee Jo, a woman who, like me, grew up in Southern California when there were still plenty of undeveloped stretches in Orange County. Now it’s quite an urban place, and most of the ranches and citrus groves are gone.

Lately, I’ve been taking a lot of walks on the beach near the hospital where my mom has been in sub-ICU for most of the last two months. For some reason, the breakers that pound so hard they make the beach tremble is very soothing, and then of course I slide into thinking about that scene in the movie. Today I read about a study being conducted by physicists in London to test a theory that our universe exists inside a bubble, and that many other alternative universes are contained within their own bubbles, and even more universes are popping up into existence. So the cosmos is really a “multiverse” which makes for quite a lot of possibility. I wish them success in proving this theory correct. I like the idea of sliding through a wormhole, or some other conveyance, and saying a “howdy” to all those I knew before.

Photo: Mary Ann Kiger

A Normal Summer? Our Usual is Hotter, But Not in Washington

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Fri, 27 May 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Before he leaps off the smooth, sizzling rock and plunges into the cool, green water churning way below, he does what every other jumper did before him: He scans the roiling surface, hoping to detect any submerged hazards that might injure his falling body. After the man’s analytical delay, gravity commands the speed of the action. In a matter of seconds, the streamlined form strikes the water, sinks below, and bobs up as if pushed by pressure. The man tosses his head to fling a soggy forelock from his eyes, and paddles off, making room for the next jumper.

You can find water holes, falls, eddies, and pools all over the usually sodden forests of western Washington, and for a local, it’s no surprise to see a long line of cars parked along the edge of a remote road in summer. At the end of the line of cars is sure to be an ample gathering of blisteringly white bathers who suffer from chronic, sun-deprived, vitamin D deficiency. Though 2011 is shaping up to be a summer without summer—a replay of the cold season we had last year—people in the Pacific Northwest know this is their best chance for swimming in snowmelt and surviving hypothermia. To people elsewhere in the United States, who are enduring unbearable heat, it might seem perverse that I was shopping for thermal leggings online the other day.

The peculiar, mutable nature of weather (the short story) and climate (the long history) means that while people in the Pacific Northwest are getting grumpy about the overkill of chill, average temperatures have climbed across the U.S. over the last 30 years. NOAA’s National Climate Data Center delivered a report a few weeks ago that revealed the climate of the 2000s is 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit warmer than in the 1970s. That rise might seem incrementally insignificant, but long-term trends show an increase in the concentration of greenhouse gases carbon dioxide and methane. These gases trap heat, which in turn, warms the air. Warmer air can hold more water vapor than colder air. Now add to that ocean temperatures that are heating up, and you have more evaporation. More evaporation means more moisture in the air to fall as rain. This is the water cycle, and it may be growing more intense, delivering more deluges and heavy snowfall when precipitation does occur, but also bringing greater periods of drought and searing heat.

Wherever we live, we face environmental changes from what we’ve considered to be the usual, the normal, the same-old. I’m looking into different weights of thermal leggings. I seem to recall someone saying the way you can tell what season it is in the Pacific Northwest is by the temperature of the rain.

For Your Health, Get a Dog

lisanatalie@gmail.com (Lisa Anjozian) — Fri, 27 May 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Listen to the Story

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They are the reliable street pageant, those pairs out early before anyone else, and again at nightfall. A middle-aged lady in a white ski hat is pulled by a German shepherd who is clearly leading. A woman whose legs were permanently damaged in a car accident is out, too. She’s wearing the thigh-to-ankle metal braces on both legs that allow her to walk her mixed-breed mutt. A woman with paralysis on one side of her body shuffles along the street with a crooked arm carried at her chest. Her dog does his own walking, leashed to her by voice-command.

The weather makes no difference to the dogs, and so to their owners, too. The same pairs, every day, are walking up the street or down it, headed out of view. Rain is drilling holes in the flower beds, hail is tapping out a military drum beat, snow is whispering its gossip in muffled tones, the sun is burning holes into cap-covered skulls, and still the dog walkers are at it out there.

I’ve seen tandem pairs such as these nearly every place I’ve lived: There’s the beach walkers, the park walkers, and the urban sidewalk strollers. There’s the trail trackers, backpackers, and the mid-day slackers. Having a friend who is always available is only part of this enviable relationship.

A recent study by a researcher at Michigan State University found that dog owners were 34% more likely to get the exercise we all need. Less than half of us are physically active enough to keep ourselves healthy, and owning a dog could be a great way to motivate us to keep moving. Of course, there are other well-known health benefits that go along with having a canine friend, but how can we really measure how much they add to our emotional well-being. More and more studies show how hazardous our lifestyles are, due to the fact that many of us spend the majority of our lives seated at a desk. Researchers found that people who owned dogs were also more likely to be active in other areas of their lives.

Anyone who’s ever owned a dog knows you don’t sleep in, you don’t skip a day, and you’re not fooling anybody with next-day promises. To your dog, it’s time to walk, and getting used to that may be one of the best things you can do for yourself in life.